Oregon

Good morning gentleostriches, it's the evening. I am just writing this post right now this very moment to tell you that there will not be a post this Thursday, March 28th. I've just been so busy not writing a post that I haven't had time to sit down, eat guacamole, and write it. Instead of a post this week, I thought I'd share with you the time I went to Oregon. I've never been to Oregon, but it's a good story none the less.

Once upon a time I went to Oregon. It was no ordinary Oregon. It was the Oregon of my dreams. And the Oregon of the United States of America. Oregon is what we Euro-Russianers call, Connecticut, and it smells like butter everywhere. But when I went to Oregon, someone there asked me a question. It was no ordinary question. It was the question of my dreams. And the question of the guy who asked it to me. He wasn't Asian. 

Anyway, he asked me a very simple and undermining question that could very well lead to the Canadian Revolution coming to an end. I actually thought it was quite strange. Mostly because I couldn't hear what he was saying when he asked me, but partly because he didn't seem to have a face. It was a frightening situation to be in. I should know. I was there. Actually I was in Oregon at that time, but that doesn't matter.

If I remember correctly, and I don't, his last name was Term-Tollison-Ninetalk. It was very strange to meet this man. So strange, in fact, that my cat's sister in-law had to do it for me. Who are you? What do you want from me? Get away you creep! Are examples of things that you would shout when a very Russian man runs up and hugs you. 

-Griffin